


Foxtrot Whiskey Bravo

by kuriadalmatia



Category: Criminal Minds
Genre: Developing Relationship, Drama, Drunkenness, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-05
Updated: 2011-02-05
Packaged: 2017-12-04 05:39:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/707163
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kuriadalmatia/pseuds/kuriadalmatia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Reid’s self-sufficient in his own way, and while his social awkwardness can be a source of amusement, Elle knows that he can use his intellect to ruthlessly cow someone into submission. Like now. She’s at his mercy, because of all the slings and arrows she can shoot at him, his genius is his shield and his sword.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> COMMENTS: Written for Coffeecocktails as part of the 2010 Criminal Minds Fanfic Exchange. A combination of two prompts: They're both so damaged already that they're either the perfect match or a disaster waiting to happen, and two people who didn't expect love find a prickly sort of affection together (and then something more).
> 
> DISCLAIMER: The Mark Gordon Company, ABC Studios and CBS Paramount Network Television own Criminal Minds. Salut! I just took them out to play and I promise put them back when I'm done. I'm not making any profit just trying to get these images out of my head.
> 
> NOTES: Thanks to lira_alicia for the Spanish translation. Thanks to Pabzi for the beta and moon_raven2 for the beta and for challenging me about Morgan. Any mistakes left are all mine! And, yes, I took some liberties with Elle’s background.

* * *

 

**“Be kind, for everyone you meet is fighting a hard battle.” – Plato**

* * *

It takes twenty-three days, sixteen hours for the cold hard fact that Spencer shot and killed a man to hit him.

Of course, it happens at one of the most inopportune times: on the way back from a relatively simple kidnapping case. They located the missing boy ten hours after he was abducted; the boy was physically unharmed, the psychological damage wasn’t as bad as it could have been, and the UnSub (the boy’s biological father) taken into custody without incident.

Simple.

Routine, if they have such things in the BAU.

A win, which always feels good.

But on the flight back to Quantico during those precious post-case hours usually spent sleeping, Spencer’s psyche decides it is time to deal with the whole Phillip Dowd thing.

He barely gets to the toilet before vomiting and he makes sure he closes his eyes as he’s doing it. The last things he needs to be stuck in his brain are the details of the inside of the jet’s toilet bowl. The smell is bad enough. At least he manages to get the door closed and, hopefully, he doesn’t wake anyone in his effort.

Spencer does not want Morgan handing him an air sickness bag and cracking some joke. The whole whistle thing still stings (irrationally, he knows, but still…), although Morgan now treats him with a bit more respect.

 _Because you put a bullet in Dowd’s head,_ his brain reminds him and that triggers another heave. He then closes his eyes and counts to twenty. Afterward, he knows his stomach is settled (for now). Spencer closes the lid and flushes. He washes his hands, rinses his mouth (not caring that the water is technically not potable; it’s not like he’s drinking it), and wipes his face. He looks like shit; the dark circles beneath his eyes are more pronounced than ever. Spencer still tastes the metallic tang of bile and he wishes he had mouthwash or something to get rid of it. Of all the things he carries in his messenger bag, Listerine isn’t one of them. He won’t make that mistake again.

Spencer takes another three deep breaths before he opens the door and nearly stumbles into Elle. She steps back quickly, but then holds out her hand. The small tube of toothpaste and a mini bottle of mouthwash gleam in the galley’s low nights. Elle gives them to him, murmuring “They’re all crashed out” as she nods to the others before sauntering back to her seat.

Which, of course, is the one closest to the lavatory.

He doesn’t get a chance to say thank you before she curls up, head turned away. Spencer goes back inside and uses his finger to scrub the gritty toothpaste on his teeth, tongue and gums. He’s grateful for her thoughtfulness and knows that she won’t rat him out to Morgan or the rest of the team.

When he finishes, he exits the restroom and stops by her. Spencer holds out the toothpaste and what's left of the mouthwash but she waves him away.

“Keep 'em,” she tells him quietly and then pulls the blanket up over her shoulder.

He desperately wants to thank her, but his vocal cords lock up as he catches movement out of the corner of his eye. Gideon is stirring and the last thing that Spencer wants his mentor to see is any sign that he can’t do the job. Instead, he stares at Elle for a few moments, watching her lips curve into that small smile as she nods. Wordless, which is a new thing for him, and Spencer goes back to his seat and settles down for the rest the flight. He doesn’t think about Phillip Dowd or his own petulant remark about looking like a teacher’s assistant without his gun.

No. He thinks of Elle and her silent kindness. Spencer vows to be there for her if she ever needs him.

It’s unlikely, because it’s _Elle_ , but he makes the vow to himself nonetheless.

 

* * *

 

It’s almost one in the morning, it’s freezing, and of course, the heater doesn’t quite work in the sedan. This isn’t the first time Elle’s returning late to the hotel after a grueling evening with victims’ families in a city/town/state she can’t remember because it’s so damn late and, in the dark, everything tends to look the same. It isn’t the first time that late night construction has closed roads, leading to a traffic jam and detours that add an hour and a half to the trip. It’s also not the first time she’s been on the road with Reid, either.

It is the first time he’s been so damn quiet. Except for giving directions around the construction—without any discourse about traffic patterns, the history of the public highway system, or whatever odd bits of useless trivia he always has on hand—Spencer stares out his window. He occasionally cranes his neck forward and presses his nose against the front windshield as he looks up at the sky.

The radio is off because they can’t get a clear FM signal that isn’t Country music and there’s no way in hell she’s going to put on an AM talk station. Reid is the only person she knows who carries books on tape with him and she’s surprised he hasn’t tried to put one in. Hell, she’s surprised the car even has a cassette deck.

She’s not sure why, but the silence totally pisses her off.

“Will you just _say_ something?” Elle demands as she grips the wheel tighter. She glances over, expecting to see Reid flustered and his mouth opening and shutting like guppy. That’s what he does when he’s yelled at: turns into a startled nine-year-old. Okay, a _normal_ nine-year-old, not one with an eidetic memory and an off-the-charts IQ.

However, in the pale green glow from the dash, Spencer looks calm, contemplative, and even a bit concerned. It makes her do a double-take. His voice is inquisitive yet soft as he asks, “What do you want to talk about?”

And shit, it's like she's back in some counselor's office; apparently a ten-year-old girl wanting to grow up to be a police officer is wrong, despite the fact that her father was one. Her mother’s voice is shrill and clear in her mind: _Ninguna hija mía…_ Elle reigns in her temper; there’s no way in hell that Reid would know that he sounds like a therapist.

Or maybe he does.

It’s hard to tell just _what_ Reid knows.

Despite growing up in Vegas where betting on sports teams is legal, he’s clueless about professional football yet…on that train in Texas and facing down a delusional psychotic with two guns, Reid knew _exactly_ how to talk to Bryar. _Exactly_ how to address the empty space next to Bryar, to refer to it as Leo, and to treat it like it was physically there. Going so far as to _address_ the hallucination directly and, of all the damn things, carry on a conversation with both Bryar and Leo.

Impressive yet wholly unsettling.

Reid knew and he was on the train for less than thirty minutes. Elle was there for hours, and she had no clue about Leo until Reid brought it up. Thinking back, Elle comes to another stunning conclusion: Bryar’s doctor didn’t know about Leo either.

Proof that it’s stupidly late and she’s exhausted, Elle blurts, “That woman writes a book on the guy, but misses that he has an imaginary friend!” Once the words leave her mouth, she realizes that she’s expecting Reid to know what she’s talking about with only generic hints. She starts to clarify by saying, “I mean.…”

“Bryar isn’t Deaton’s only patient,” Reid interrupts smoothly, not quite in lecture mode but close enough. “While she has an office at that facility, it’s not her main one so she’s not there to monitor him constantly. He could have easily kept Leo hidden from her.”

She’s getting used to his perceptiveness when it comes to talking about cases. Throw a pop culture reference at him, and Reid may not get it. Mention anything about any serial killer, and he _knows_. It’s because of that, Elle goes on, “And no one else at the institution saw Bryar talking to himself?”

He snorts and shakes his head. “They probably did but thought nothing of it. It’s a pretty common delusion. At that particular facility, the ratio is one staff for every four patients, which is higher than average. However, the staff can be anyone from a volunteer to an orderly to a social worker to an intern.”

“You’re saying they’re not qualified?”

“No, I’m saying that it would be relatively easy for a paranoid psychotic to keep his imaginary friend a secret,” Reid retorts, but it’s not as friendly as she’s expecting.

There’s an edge to it, a tone which she can’t remember ever hearing from him. There’s something personal about it, just like there was more to the whole ‘knowing what it’s like’ conversation he had with Bryar. Elle can’t resist asking, “And you know all this because you bought into his fantasy?”

She glances over, again expecting to see a shocked expression on his face, disbelief that she’d bring that conversation back up again. Instead, she’s treated to a completely unreadable mask.

His tone is flat as he says, “Yes and no. I did buy into Bryar’s fantasy. I also had Garcia pull information on the facility before I boarded the train.” He pauses and then his voice takes on a curious edge. “I guess you can compare it to how you knew that our two victims were high-functioning alcoholics. How their older children knew, but the younger ones and the women’s closest friends had no idea. Those women only drank in the privacy of their homes and kept strict personal rules for when and what they drank.”

Elle nearly slams on the brakes as he finishes his sentence. She knows she sounds hostile, belligerent as she demands, “What the _hell_ are you implying, Reid?”

“I’m not implying anything,” he replies, his voice still soft. “We all have different experiences, Elle.”

And that is when Elle Greenaway realizes that she never wants to get on Reid’s bad side. Oh sure, he looks like a harmless, geeky grad student with his messenger bag and sweater vests. He’s rail thin and has foppish hair and is so totally not an alpha male it’s amazing he ever got in to the BAU. His intellect is what opens the doors, and that’s how they primarily use him, but right then, right there, any doubts that Reid can’t fully hold his own are erased.

She should have seen it when he interviewed Eric Miller during that family-annihilator case. She wanted to stop the proceedings after Miller snarled at Reid to shut his mouth and asked if Hotch was his daddy.

Then Reid boldly asked, “My one concern is, Eric, did you or did you not continue the cycle with your own children?”

Miller broke, hard. And while Elle teased Reid about his interrogation technique, he simply replied that he wasn’t getting anywhere with Miller and he needed a way in. Matter of fact. Not arrogant. Professional.

She shivers and swallows hard. The team has a tendency to baby Reid, even (sometimes especially) Gideon. It’s automatic. It’s instinctual. Reid’s the type of guy who _should_ need protecting, the clichéd brainy kid who uses his lunch money to hire a bully as his bodyguard.

Yet Elle knows now that Reid has been taking care of himself far longer than anyone expects. He’s self-sufficient in his own way, and while his social awkwardness can be a source of amusement, Elle knows that he can use his intellect to ruthlessly cow someone into submission. Like now. She’s at his mercy, because of all the slings and arrows she can shoot at him, his genius is his shield and his sword. He’s a goddamn gladiator.

Her only response is to stutter, “No intra-team profiling, Reid.”

Lame. Pathetic. Cowardly. Because the last thing she wants is a discussion on her ‘experiences’, on how she knows about the victims’ drinking habits without having to look at the autopsy results or see the broken blood vessels on their noses that are usually hidden by makeup. How she knows their drinking patterns by what’s kept in the fridge and why the highball glasses and full decanters of whiskey and vodka prominently displayed on the bar are dusty, because those women drank cheap booze from plastic tumblers ( _because they were just like your mother,_ her mind whispers).

“Like anyone follows _that_ rule,” Reid scoffs, but his voice is back to that light-hearted teasing tone, as if all is forgiven.

Elle forces her attention back to the road, mouth dry. _He knows your secret,_ her brain sneers; it is countered quickly by, _but he’ll never betray you._

“If you take the next exit, there’s a Waffle House point three miles from the off-ramp,” Reid casually tells her as he settles back in his seat.

She knows it’s not only a peace offering, but also a chance to talk. Elle automatically rails against it; the first rule of being a female law enforcement officer is not to share one’s feelings. Even though she knows it’s just Reid and he’s far from the typical agent, she can’t bring herself to accept. Instead, she asks, “One fourteen in the morning and you want waffles?”

“One fourteen in the morning and I have to pee,” he replies with uncharacteristic bluntness.

It’s her turn to gape. He usually doesn’t use words like that. ‘Urinate’ or ‘use the facilities’ or any number of polite euphemisms for going to the bathroom. Never, ever ‘have to pee’.

He looks over, a coy smile on his lips as satisfied he’s blown her mind. “I can hold it if you don’t want to stop. The hotel is only another thirty minutes away.”

When Reid doesn’t launch into the expected discourse about the human bladder, Elle finds herself laughing. “Waffle House it is.”

 

* * *

 

The door to Hotch’s office is closed as are the blinds. It muffles voices to a certain degree, but not enough for the bullpen to ignore that Elle and Hotch are arguing.

Spencer can’t help the frequent glances over there. It’s been fifteen minutes and they’re still going strong. In his time at the BAU, Spencer can’t recall any closed door meeting with Hotch that lasted more than a few minutes—especially with raised voices. Hotch is the kind of guy with whom one has to score verbal jabs swift, hard and first, because Hotch isn’t going to let the match go to a second round.

Spencer may not know shit about football, but boxing is another matter entirely.

He knows what the argument is about: Elle rushed into the UnSub’s basement without waiting for backup or putting on Kevlar. Hotch is ferociously protective of the team nowadays, a byproduct of Adrian Bale no doubt, and he waited until they got back to Quantico to call Elle on her behavior.

“Wonder if she’s going to have any left,” Morgan comments as he leans back in his chair and tosses a wadded up piece of paper into his trash can. It lands perfectly, of course.

Spencer looks up at the door again before returning his attention to Morgan and his comment. He asks, “Any what left?”

“Her ass,” Morgan replies sourly and then shoots another basket. “Still can’t believe she did that. Damn.”

The door to Hotch’s office swings open and Elle storms out and down to her desk. Those in the bullpen struggle to act like they weren’t paying attention, but fail miserably. Spencer is surprised she doesn’t slam the door behind her but realizes that while Elle tends to be emotional, she’s not melodramatic. She yanks open a drawer, pulls out her briefcase and begins stuffing files in it. She’s scowling.

Spencer knows that Morgan’s going to start questioning her; he’s the only one with the clout and nerve to do so. Yet by the light tremor in her hands as she reaches for things, he also knows that she won’t handle Morgan’s brand of interrogation or comfort very well in her current state.

So, Spencer leans forward and makes it obvious that he’s looking at her rear. “It’s all still there.” The bullpen comes to a complete stop.

Elle is momentarily stunned and then she glares at him, a look that usually causes men to grab their crotches in self-defense. Morgan’s mouth drops open. Anderson starts coughing suddenly.

Spencer looks quizzically at Morgan. “You said she wouldn’t have any of her ass left.”

“Kid…” Morgan sputters as he hastily signals for him to shut up.

Spencer ignores him on purpose, keeping his tone bright and gestures enthusiastic. “Did you know the phrase ‘a pound of flesh’…” he begins to lecture, rambling on about origins and historical significance. No one tries to stop him. At the three minute mark, Elle finishes packing, swings the strap over her shoulder, grabs her jacket, and leaves.

“Kid!” Morgan finally snaps and throws a wad of paper at him. Spencer automatically ducks, and when he looks back, Morgan is shaking his head and pressing his fingers to his temples. “Didn’t your momma teach you any manners?”

The comment stings like hell, of course, but he knows that Morgan has no clue about his family. Spencer’s done a damn good job at deflecting those questions; it’s second-nature to him now. Still, he presses his lips together, looks confused and starts with, “But you said…”

“I know what I said, kid,” he snaps and makes a cutting motion with his hand. “Just forget it.”

The rest of the day speeds by, the bullpen quiet and timid the two times Hotch leaves his office for coffee and a restroom break. When Gideon stops by Spencer’s desk on his way out for the evening, his mentor says quietly, “You didn’t need to do that.”

Spencer looks up and tilts his head sideways. “Do what?”

There’s that split second when Gideon’s brow creases, as if trying to figure out if Spencer is really as clueless as he’s pretending to be. There’s a part of Spencer wondering why the hell he’s even attempting to fool an expert profiler, especially his mentor. His ego chimes in with, _Gideon’s a chess player, not a magician. There are still a few of your tells he doesn’t know._ Spencer figures he has a few more shots at playing dumb before the man catches on.

“Elle can take care of herself,” Gideon tells him, eyes narrowed as if he’s studying some specimen.

Spencer glances towards Morgan, who has his nose pointedly stuck in a file, and then over to Anderson, who nearly spins out of his chair because he’s turning around so fast trying not to paying attention. Spencer blinks and meets Gideon’s scrutinizing gaze. This is the part where most people screw up. This is the part where most people start babbling about not knowing what Gideon is talking about, thereby giving Gideon an opening for an interrogation. Instead, Spencer bounces his gaze from Morgan to Anderson to Gideon again.

His mentor shakes his head, lets out small, exasperated sigh and turns his attention to Morgan. “Explain it to him, will you?”

Morgan nods but still refuses to make eye contact with Spencer. Gideon pats Spencer once on the shoulder and then leaves. Once the glass door to the BAU closes, Morgan rolls his chair over and leans forward. “He thought that your whole little ‘pound of flesh’ speech was meant to focus the attention on yourself so Elle wouldn’t have to answer any of our questions.”

Spencer blinks as if he just now realizes how the scene could have been interpreted, “Oh. But.…”

Morgan holds up his hand. “I know, kid. Just…hell, I don’t know. Next time, when I tell you to shut up, shut up, okay?”

He dutifully nods and earns another pat on the shoulder. Technically, he’s not lying. He’s just not acknowledging the truth. Spencer wonders if Morgan or Gideon will forgive the distinction.

 

* * *

 

Elle still isn’t used to DC traffic and isn’t familiar enough with the city to know the back ways to get to Reid’s apartment. She’s surprised at the neighborhood; it isn’t as affluent as she expects for a single guy with a decent FBI salary. Yet as she passes a few landmarks, she realizes that it is, like almost everything with Reid, strategic.

She laughs as she adjusts the volume on NPR. She wonders if Gideon and Hotch buy in to the whole “innocent Reid” routine and concludes that they probably do to some extent. However, his little stunt yesterday…

At first, she was floored by his audacity at making a comment about her ass. Then, she was humiliated by his whole ‘pound of flesh’ discourse. However, once she got to her car, she realized just what Reid did. Everyone was so focused on his rambling that they left her alone.

It’s why she’s on his way to his place this morning. She knows he usually takes the VRE and, with a little detective work, she figures out when Reid would be leaving. She gives herself an additional twenty minutes to deal with traffic and getting lost.

Elle spots Reid as he hurries across the street. She honks the horn to get Reid’s attention and is momentarily stunned when he doesn’t even turn, unlike the six other people he’s crossing with. Then she chastises herself, _It’s Reid._ He’s heading in the opposite direction she’s going, so she puts her turn signal on and, once the lanes are clear, does a u-turn between blocks. The guy behind her rolls his window down to curse at her, but she ignores him.

Reid has only gone two blocks—damn, the man can walk fast—and Elle lowers the passenger window as she approaches. “Reid!” she shouts but, predictably, he doesn’t turn. She hits the horn, counts five and tries again. “Agent Reid!” This time, he does look over and his mouth drops open. He stops but doesn’t walk over. Elle puts her car in park, leans over and fumbles for the door handle. It takes a few tries but she finally gets it open and pushed out a little. She waves him toward her. “C’mon.”

The driver behind her blares his horn and shouts at her. Reid looks frozen to the spot, as if he can’t believe his coworker tracked him down and is now offering him a ride. Of all the damn things, he checks his phone and stares at it confused for a few seconds before clipping it back to his belt. Then, he does that funny little quick walk of his over to her car and awkwardly gets in.

“We have a case?” he asks and unclips his phone again. “JJ didn’t call…” He sounds hurt.

“No case,” Elle answers and puts the car in gear. As she begins driving, she delivers a few nasty glares in the rearview mirror to the dickwad who has now decided to tailgate her. “Can a federal agent arrest someone for a traffic violation?” she asks, because she’s really _really_ tempted to do it. Then common sense kicks in. The last thing Hotch needs to hear about is how one of his agents…yeah… She glances over. Reid’s mouth is half-open so she says, “Don’t answer that.”

“Okay.”

“Wow. A little slow in the morning?” Because it’s totally unlike Reid not to pounce upon such an esoteric question.

“Not enough coffee.”

“Then, let’s get you some.”

“Elle…” he begins and clears his throat. His voice has that nervous pitch to it as he says, “Elle, why are you…ah… _here?_ I mean, you don’t live near here…we don’t have a case…”

“I’m here to get you coffee.”

He closes his mouth and she knows his mulling over things. Reid then grabs the seatbelt and buckles himself in. “Ah…why?”

“We’re friends. Friends get coffee together.” Elle knows he’s staring at her so she keeps focused on the road and the guy who continues to tailgate her. “So, give me directions to your favorite coffee place.”

Reid is silent for a few seconds before instructing her to turn right at the next light. The ride to the coffee house is spent in silence except for his directions, including where to park. The place isn’t a Starbucks, Dunkin Donuts, Peet’s or Seattle’s Best. It’s a small café tucked between a bookstore and a hair salon.

He’s obviously a regular because when they walk in, the barista waves and then begins working on an order. There’s no one else in line. It’s a cozy place and it’s easy to see why Reid frequents it. It’s very Reid. Elle’s order is straightforward: tall, dark roast coffee.

She glances at her watch and tries to calculate if they can have the coffee here or if they need to get on the road because of traffic. Reid answers her unspoken question by ordering two scones but she beats him when it comes to paying.

Or tries to.

He gently pushes her credit card away and pays with cash instead. “They get charged a percentage of the total sale for every credit card transaction. American Express has the worst fees.”

They end up sitting at a small table by the window. Her coffee is excellent—they roast the beans here every Thursday according to Reid—and the scone is good.

“You’re…you’re not suspended, are you?” Reid asks as he stirs his latte o’sugar. He’s nervous. He doesn’t want to ask, which is the reason he’s not looking directly at her.

“I got my ass chewed out, Reid,” she replies as she nudges him with her foot, “not fired. Mom told me not to do it again.” She smiles because, really, Hotch does have such Mom tendencies it’s almost unreal, and she takes another sip of coffee before settling back. She eyes him carefully. “I know what you did yesterday.”

Reid blushes and clears his throat. “I’m sorry I stared at your…” He gestures toward her ass and turns even more crimson. “You know…I’m sorry—”

“Cut the bullshit, Reid,” Elle interrupts, knowing if she calls his bluff right away, he’s more likely to answer outright. He’s still blushing, but maybe it’s not from embarrassment. Maybe it’s because she’s figured him out.

He takes a long sip of his coffee then toys with his half-eaten scone. Quietly, he explains, “I know what it’s like to have the entire place stare at you and wonder just what was said. And I know that no one would leave you alone until you answered.” Reid looks up. “No one has ever gone toe-to-toe with Hotch for that long.”

It’s Elle’s turn to stare. She’s never had a champion quite like Reid. Hell, if she’s honest with herself, she’s never had a champion, period. All she can say is, “Really.”

“Morgan’s record is four minutes, twenty-three seconds,” he replies with a slight conspiratorial tone.

Morgan is headstrong and their resident Devil’s Advocate. He’s allowed more leeway than the rest of the department. Reid’s statement makes her laugh just a little and then wonder why the hell Hotch, well, indulged her. She tilts her head and asks, “You don’t want to know what it was about?”

Reid shrugs, takes another hefty drink, and looks out the window. “I know that Hotch, Morgan and I went to six funerals in four states in three days. Have you ever been on a road trip with two alpha males who refuse to admit they’re grieving, so they argue about professional basketball instead?”

The comment stops her cold. She closes her eyes. The only reason the spot on the BAU had been open was because it had belonged to one of those six agents killed in the Boston bombings. She curses inwardly at not realizing why Hotch got so bent out of shape. She feels like an idiot.

“Gideon hadn’t been cleared to fly yet,” Reid continues, “so he could only attend two of them.” He tacks on, “What I also know is that you went into the house without backup and without your vest. Sure, I’d like to go to New York City someday, but not to bury you.”

It’s such a blunt, _honest_ statement that it makes her eyes burn. Elle blinks rapidly, because none of her colleagues have ever expressed such an earnest affection for her. Her voice is watery and she hates it, but she says, “Reid…”

“If we leave now, we’ll miss most of the traffic,” he interrupts as he begins to slide out of his seat. He meets her gaze and suddenly he’s that awkward geek she’s used to dealing with. “Unless…ah…you want to drop me off at the station. It’s only two blocks from here. I mean…you did say just coffee.”

It’s another tidbit of himself he’s offering to her. An insight into just how hellish his childhood must have been. People willing to be his friend but only in private because people like her never want to admit they spend time around people like him. Like Reid’s a dirty little secret.

It angers her so she grabs his hand. He’s startled. She knows he doesn’t like to be touched but she’s not going to let go until he looks at her. When he finally does, she tells him fiercely, “You’re my friend. I’ll never be embarrassed to call you that, you understand?”

He blanches a little but then nods. She’s not expecting Reid to say, “Ditto.”

 

* * *

 

Spencer has no idea _why_ he decided to confide in Morgan about his nightmares. Just like every other cool guy who has befriended him, Morgan can’t keep a secret. Despite the reassurances from Hotch that they all have them, that’s part of the job. Despite Morgan’s own confession that he still dreams about that girl’s eyes. Despite Gideon’s little talk on the jet, how he looks at the photo of Deborah Louise Addison and her children before he goes to sleep at night...it feels almost like a betrayal.

Yes, Gideon’s words did help a little, but Spencer’s not the type to carry a photograph in his wallet to remind himself of the good he’s done. It’s a bit too much like having a trophy. Spencer doesn’t want to think about the psychological implications of that in relation to Gideon.

When they get back from McAllister, Virginia, it’s pouring rain and he inwardly grimaces. Usually, he doesn’t mind the rain but today, Spencer is not in the mood to put up with it, especially because he forgot his umbrella. He checks the online radar and calculates how long he’ll have to stay at the office until the weather clears up enough for him not to be drenched. He’ll end up staying later than Hotch.

Elle stops by his desk, purse and keys in hand. “Let’s go.”

He stares.

She nods towards the door.

Spencer glances around as he flushes with embarrassment. He really hates it when they decide he can’t take care of himself. He’s about to say no when she tacks on, “I owe you a coffee, remember?” It’s her effortless way of saying, _I’m not babying you. Don’t be stupid._

It teases a smile out of him and he says, “Okay.” It’s not until they’re in her car that he can muster up a “Thanks” without it sounding squeaky.

“No problem.”

Then, Elle takes a left instead of the right needed to get to his place. “Elle…”

“I’m hungry,” she declares.

He stares at her for a moment, expecting her to say, _You’ll sleep better on a full stomach,_ or some other bits of wisdom. He’s certain that she knows about his nightmares as well. If Morgan told Gideon and Hotch…

“We’re friends,” Elle tells him as she makes another turn.

Instead of being reassuring, it pisses him off. Spencer crosses his arms and glowers. “So was Morgan,” he mutters.

The car jerks over to the median and stops. Elle sounds somewhere between worried and angry. “What did he do?”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Spencer tells her, because he’s been humiliated enough in the past few days. He’s not even sure why he said anything.

There’s a long pause and then Elle exhales sharply. She puts the car in gear and begins driving again. The next twenty minutes are spent in an uncomfortable silence and Reid doesn’t know what to say once he realizes that she’s not going to a restaurant, but to her home. She pulls in her driveway, puts the car in park and turns off the engine. “It has to do with a few mornings ago, right? When I walked up, you left pretty quickly. Morgan didn’t say a thing, but he looked worried.”

It’s a classic interrogation technique. Spencer sighs and then weighs his options. Finally, he confesses, “I told him about my nightmares.”

Elle shakes her head and pulls the key out of the ignition. “Let me guess, he passed you off to someone and totally embarrassed you.” She reaches behind her and grabs her purse. “C’mon. I’ll make you dinner.”

Before he can protest, she’s out of the car and dashing towards her front door.

Spencer stares at her for a few moments and then unbuckles his seatbelt. It dawns on him that she’s kind of mad that he didn’t come to her first, but he’s even madder at himself.

Just because he’s a genius doesn’t mean he doesn’t have bouts of stupidity.

 

* * *

 

Elle wakes up screaming and lunging for her gun. She’s drenched in sweat and shaking. She’s hyperventilating and it’s terrifying. It takes a good five minutes for her to calm down enough to be able to pull back the covers on her bed and stumble towards the shower. She cleans up quickly, checks the time—2:07 a.m.—and dresses in track pants and a hooded sweatshirt.

There’s no going back to bed after that kind of nightmare. Then, she remembers Reid’s comments over dinner after the case in McAllister. When Reid actually does sleep, he only gets in two or three hours at time. _I write my term papers at three a.m. Do you, ah, think it’s weird that I’m working on a bachelor’s in philosophy?_

 _I think it’s totally you, Reid,_ she replied and the relieved smile she received made her vow never to judge him on his hobbies, especially his obsession with obtaining college degrees.

Knowing that he’s probably awake is the reason she grabs her cell phone and texts him, RU UP?

Three minutes later, her phone is ringing. She picks it up and says, “A simply ‘y’ or ‘n’ would have sufficed.”

Reid laughs, but it’s a little on the strained side. He sounds worried. “I’m terrible with the keys.”

Elle fiddles with the folds of her bedspread and asks, “Can I come over?”

“Sure,” he says without hesitation, and Elle knows he’s been kept up by nightmares as well.

Thirty minutes later, Elle’s knocking on the door to Reid’s apartment. He answers it, hair mussed and dressed in—she blinks twice—seersucker pajamas. He’s wearing his glasses, which only adds to his dorky charm. He wordlessly lets her in and closes the door behind her. She hears the locks tumble into place, but she’s too busy glancing around his apartment to say anything.

Elle is not expecting neat. Tidy. A quirky mix of IKEA (she recognizes the black-brown Billy/Benno bookcase combination because she has the same exact ones in birch) and used furniture. It makes her smile, because it’s not what she’s expecting. Sure, it’s one-hundred percent Reid, but it’s not what she would have predicted.

There are no _Star Wars_ or _Star Trek_ movie posters adorning the walls; instead, the artwork is modern, paint on canvas. There are no model starships dangling from the ceiling or lightsabers on the bookshelves. There are a few gargoyles on the tops of the shelves and polished, split geodes used as bookends. When Elle’s gaze gets to his desk, she stops. It’s an old fashioned secretary style that should look out of place but doesn’t; it’s also littered with paper and folders. It’s the sloppiest thing in his living area.

“Tea?” Reid’s question jolts her out of her observation.

Elle knows she’s blushing so she apologizes with a “Sorry” and a sheepish shrug. When she glances over her shoulder, she realizes he’s not offended by her taking in the details of his living space. It’s almost as if he’s expecting it. She remembers his comment about no one following the “don’t profile each other” rule.

“Tea?” he asks again.

While tea is nice and tea is appropriate, Elle asks, “Something stronger?”

He presses his lips together briefly and then nods. “Gin, right?” he calls out as he goes off to his kitchen. She says ‘yes’ as she follows to the small space which is a poor excuse for a cooking area. Reid sorts through the cabinet over the fridge and produces a bottle of Magellan. “On the rocks?”

Elle gapes. She’s expecting Gordon’s or Beefeater, not her favorite top-shelf brand. It takes a few seconds for her to nod as she realizes that Reid bought the booze specifically for her. She knows he doesn’t drink that often—at least that’s what she’s observed when they’re all out together—but he’s of the belief that even if he doesn’t drink them, he’s going to offer the better brands. She’s suddenly curious as to what brand of bourbon he keeps in stock for Hotch, just in case Hotch were to stop by at two in the morning trolling for drinks.

Like that’s ever going to happen.

Reid hands her a glass with four ice cubes and healthy shot of the blue-tinged gin. He has one himself and taps it lightly against hers. A toast, but she’s not quite sure what they’re toasting to.

Elle decides she doesn’t care.

The gin is smooth. Amazing. Potent.

“You have excellent taste, Doctor Reid,” she tells him with a smile. She saunters back to his living space and looks around again. The couch has a solid forest green slipcover and the coffee table is dark, like the bookcases, but scuffed. There are books and DVDs on the shelves. It’s then she realizes, “There’s no TV.” She looks back at him. “Oh, c’mon Reid. I know you have one.”

He turns crimson, hastily takes another sip of his gin as if needing the liquid fortification, and then says, “My bedroom.” He coughs a little and adds, “I don’t usually have guests.”

It’s Elle’s turn to nod her understanding. It also makes her heart ache. She’s a transplant from Seattle but originally from New York, so it’s reasonable she wouldn’t have any friends in the DC area. Those she grew close to at the Academy are scattered all over the country. Reid? As far as she can tell, he’s been here for at least three years. She thinks back to her conclusion about him from the coffee shop, that people only want to be Reid’s friend if they can do so privately or if it’s for their own personal benefit. There’s no reciprocity for him. It prompts her to say, “Sucks, doesn’t it?”

“Yeah,” he snorts before fidgeting with his glass. “Do you, ah, want to talk?” Reid’s tone is cautious, wary almost. Up until his question, she could have simply been a friend stopping by for a drink.

Of course, he’s curious. He has to be. And he has to be wondering why she chose him, of all people, to visit. Elle looks down at her glass and then glances towards his bedroom. “Bad dreams.”

“I promise I won’t tell anyone,” he swears and that is what makes her scowl a little. “I mean…I mean…do you…ah…want me to?”

The way he squeaks out the question makes her jerk her gaze to meet his. He’s so earnest, so _Reid_ , that it makes her walk up him and grab his wrist. He flinches, like always, but she holds on. “I’m mad because you told something to Morgan in confidence and he betrayed you.”

Reid gapes a little, just like he did the first time she said it over dinner at her place. “He just thought…”

“It wasn’t affecting your performance,” Elle interrupts, because she knows how Reid automatically defends Morgan. Hell, he defends everyone on the team but himself. She brushes her thumb against his wrist. “I don’t want you telling anyone.” She pauses. “Unless you think it’s affecting my performance.”

He gives a quick, sharp nod. “I promise.”

And that’s one thing Elle knows about Reid for certain: he doesn’t break his promises. He really doesn’t.

They stand in silence for a few moments before Reid clears his throat and tentatively asks, “Would you, ah, like to watch TV?”

Elle can’t help but grin. “Is that a new euphemism for asking me to go to bed with you?”

His eyes widen. He stammers. She’s never seen him flush so dark before.

She lets him go and sashays down the hall towards his bedroom. “I accept.”

 

* * *

 

Technically, he slept with Elle, not that Spencer would ever tell anyone.

It’s the first decent three hours of sleep he’s had in months. Spencer wonders if it’s the same for Elle. He knows she won’t talk about it. He knows she’ll never acknowledge that she came over to his place at two in the morning. He’s used to being “the Secret” and, honestly, he doesn’t mind. It’s just easier that way.

It’s not the first time Spencer has shared his bed with someone platonically, but it’s the first time he’s done it with a coworker. The morning isn’t as awkward as he’s expecting. Maybe it’s because he hasn’t had enough caffeine for his nervousness to kick in yet.

One thing about being in the BAU: one always has a spare set of work clothes stashed in one’s car. While Elle goes down to her car for her bag, Spencer cleans up and makes sure the bathroom is ready for her. While she’s getting ready, he makes a half pot of coffee and splits it b between two travel mugs. The one for her is plain, stainless steel. His has “Darmok and Jalad at Tanagra” painted on the side, and it never fails to make Morgan shake his head, say that he doesn’t want to know what it means, and then call him a geek. Spencer’s tempted to use the one that says, “It’s hard to work well in a group when you’re Omnipotent”, but decides it sounds far too arrogant.

She exits his bedroom, go bag over one shoulder. After her third month at the BAU, she switched from a holster on her hip to a shoulder harness for her gun. Spencer’s been meaning to ask why, because most agents don’t change their weapon or their holster without a damn good reason. He just doesn’t have the nerve.

Elle walks up to him, spies the coffee mugs and grins. She then steps forward and envelopes him in a hard hug. He barely hears the “Thank you” she murmurs against his chest, and while he’s never too keen on sharing personal space, he returns the hug and echoes her sentiment.

 

* * *

 


	2. Chapter 2

It’s late when they get back to Quantico from a case in Tampa Bay, and Spencer is surprised that Elle wordlessly offers him a ride home even though he doesn’t need one. Morgan’s watching them both and Spencer suddenly realizes that Morgan and Elle have been, well, _competing_ for his attention as of late. It’s weird. It’s uncomfortable. It’s an impossible decision to make because someone is going to get their feelings hurt, so Spencer offers up the compromise of drinks at the Auld Dubliner. JJ and Garcia join them.

He’s not expecting JJ, Garcia, Elle and Morgan to get completely wasted, but by the end of the night, Elle and Morgan are friends again. Morgan goes so far as to apologize to Spencer for telling Hotch and Gideon about his nightmares and Spencer accepts it quickly, mostly get Morgan to shut up. Morgan and Elle then declare how much they love Spencer (loudly, to the amusement of every patron in the bar), Garcia calls him her very own “Mister Data” and asks if he’s fully functional, and JJ can’t stop laughing.

Spencer herds them to his Volvo and they all make fun of his car. Garcia, Morgan and JJ pile in the backseat because Elle calls, “Shotgun” first. It’s a crazy drive—his four passengers decide to sing songs from the Blues Brothers off-key and a cappella—and Spencer manages to get them to their separate homes in one piece.

Elle is the last, because she’s in the front seat. Spencer walks her to her front door, unlocks it, and ushers her inside. She flops down on the window seat, giggling how cute he is when he takes charge. Spencer ignores her as he quickly checks her house to make sure that she’s alone and all the windows are locked and the backdoor is secure. He remembers her confession about her recurring nightmare, how an UnSub breaks into her home and shoots her in her sleep.

When he comes back to her living room, Elle launches herself at him. Spencer catches her and she kisses him full on the lips, wrapping her arms around his neck and snaking her leg between his. “I want you,” she tells him huskily and grinds her hips against his. She latches on to his belt and bites his ear. _“Naked.”_

Spencer automatically groans. His body responds, and she rubs harder against his erection and continues to kiss him. It’s not the first time a female friend has propositioned him when she was drunk; he was the “safe date” back in grad school after he turned eighteen. He knows better than to take Elle up on her offer. Instead, he maneuvers her towards her bedroom and she hums happily as she gropes him. It’s distracting as hell.

Once in her bedroom, Spencer pulls the covers back on her bed and gets her to sit down. Elle giggles about making him a man, which is annoying because he’s not a virgin, no matter what people think, and there’s a part of him (mainly his dick) that wants to show her just what an IQ of 187 means when it comes to sexual gratification. He refrains. Spencer gets her shoes off followed by her cell phone from her belt, and finally her shoulder holster. He places the gun and her mobile on the night stand, her shoes on the floor, and then grabs her ankles and swings her legs up so she’s flat on her back in bed.

Elle laughs wildly, calls him a tiger and clutches his sweater vest as he moves away. She slurs, “C’mon, Reid,” the stench of gin on her breath almost nauseating.

He knows if he tells her he’s leaving, she’ll protest. She’ll become belligerent. He doesn’t put it past her to grab her gun and threaten him with it. Instead, Spencer leans down and gently kisses her. He strokes her temple, her hair, her shoulders and her arms. He slows the pace down deliberately, because he knows how much she’s had to drink and it’s only a matter of time before she falls asleep. Spencer feels bad about it, like he’s tricking her almost, but he knows it’s better to do this than to wake up in the morning and Elle to think that he took advantage of her drunkenness.

When Elle turns pliant, he knows he can leave. He pulls up the covers. She looks at him quizzically and he murmurs, “I’ll be back.”

He’s not lying. He will be back. Just not tonight.

Spencer wonders if she’ll forgive him.

 

* * *

 

It’s not Reid who is flustered around Elle. It’s Elle who is flustered around Reid. In a room full of profilers, it is as close to Hell as one can get because they’re _all_ trying to figure out just what happened.

It annoys the crap out of her, because it isn’t the first time she’s gotten drunk and propositioned a male colleague. It _is_ the first time she’s been turned down, which is in one way insulting but in another, something Reid would totally do. She remembers his firm lips on hers, dexterous tongue in her mouth, and the delicious weight of his erection against her palm.

Reid turned her down because it was the _right_ thing to do, not what he probably wanted to do. At least, that’s what Elle repeats to herself so the sting of rejection isn’t so sharp. Elle knows how to act around a colleague she has “Friends with Benefits” status. She has no clue how to act around Reid.

Morgan is the first to approach, cornering her in the kitchen and asking if her hangover is as bad as his. Oddly, it isn’t. After she says as much, he quickly follows up with, “So what’s up with you and Reid?”

She shoves the carafe back on the burner just a little too hard, which is all the answer Morgan really needs. His grin grows wide, he sidles up to her, his tone is deviously friendly. As much as Morgan may give Reid all kinds of shit about things, Morgan plays the role of Big Brother well. “What did you do last night?”

Elle delivers her best glare, which makes him scoot back a few inches. “He took me home. Just like he took you home.”

“And?”

“And nothing, Morgan,” she snaps.

“Oh, there’s something there, girl,” he waggles his finger at her. “And I’m gonna find out what.” He takes a step back and there’s an oddly pitched squeak. They both turn and find Reid standing there, holding a paper cup half full of coffee in one hand and a lid in the other. Morgan’s smile grows even more friendly as he slides an arm around Reid’s shoulder. “Pret-ty Boy.” His greeting is warm, jovial. “What happened last night? Elle’s blushing like a schoolgirl around you.”

Reid’s eyes bug out in cartoonish fashion. Elle’s brain fills in the “ooga ooga” sound from her days of watching _Looney Tunes_ reruns. Before she can snarl at Morgan to back off, Reid opens his mouth. “I took her home, like I took you, Garcia and JJ home. I went inside with Elle, just like I did for everyone else.”

Elle begins to let out a sigh of relief because of the way Reid phrased it, but he continues.

“The only thing I did different was I took her to bed…” he trails off as Morgan’s eyebrows rise sharply in disbelief. Reid then turns bright red, as if realizing the connotations of what he just said, but instead of shutting up like a normal guy who just implied he had sex with his coworker, Reid desperately tries to explain. “I mean, I took her to her bedroom and put her _in_ bed, but we didn’t…I didn’t…I mean…It’s not like we…ah…there was no coitus involved.”

Elle smacks her palm to her forehead, because as well as she knows Reid, she knows that this isn’t one of his little verbal sleight-of-hand tricks. It’s too earnest, too honest to be something like that.

“Coitus?” There’s no mistaking the admonishment in Gideon’s tone.

Elle looks over Reid’s shoulder to find both Gideon _and_ Hotch there. “Oh God,” she mutters to herself because just fucking _great_ , Dad and Mom know. Reid whirls around and his coffee cup drops promptly from his hand. It hits the floor and the tan liquid douses Hotch’s perfectly polished black shoes and his primly pressed dress trousers. Reid makes a horrified sound as he immediately grabs a huge stack of napkins and drops to his knees, apologizing profusely to Hotch as he mops up the coffee.

Gideon is staring at Morgan and Elle, and both of them drop their chins to their chests, guilty. It’s annoying as hell that he has that particular power over both of them.

“Reid,” Hotch says using his full command tone; the younger agent instantly freezes, his mouth snapping shut. He’s the only one who has that effect on Reid. The _only_ one. While Gideon holds the title of unit chief, Elle figured out within her first week on the team that Hotch really runs the show. Hotch’s voice softens as he tacks on, “It’s fine.”

Reid stutters out “Sorry” a few more times before Hotch reaches down and tugs on Reid’s shoulder for him to stand. Reid complies, hands full of dripping napkins and a coffee cup. Hotch motions for him to dump it in the trash and he does. With a nod, Hotch dismisses Reid and the younger agent scurries out of the kitchen, presumably to the restroom to wash his hands.

Hotch fixes Elle and Morgan with a stare and Elle feels like she’s in the principal’s office back in high school. Hotch’s voice is low, firm. “I don’t want to know what happened.” He pauses. “Don’t let it happen again.”

“Yes, sir,” Elle says in unison with Morgan.

 

* * *

 

Two days later, they’re on the jet to New York City to hunt down a vigilante and teasing Reid about never having been to the Big Apple before. Elle remembers the conversation she had with Reid over that first coffee and smiles to herself. They’re going because of an UnSub, not because of her funeral, which is a really dark and dismal thought, but it’s a weird little victory she savors.

When JJ offers to take Reid around, Elle almost scoffs. JJ may be an amazing media liaison, but Barney’s and Il Cantinori? So… _boring_. She promises herself that if they have a few hours, she’ll make sure Reid sees the places he’ll enjoy going to. She says something about spending a few days at home because that’s what’s expected, but Home for her is her father’s old precinct and the family of her best friend. Not her mother’s home. Never her mother’s home.

The case ends with Hotch shooting the UnSub. It’s a justified shot but she can tell Reid is unsettled, as if Hotch’s star is now a little less bright. It doesn’t make sense; just four months ago, Reid killed Dowd. So why the change? Reid wasn’t in the room when Hotch took the shot either, so there shouldn’t be any horror over that. She’s curious but won’t ask him outright.

She’s not surprised when he turns up on her doorstep at nearly midnight the evening they get home. “I couldn’t sleep,” he tells her and there’s something in his eyes that makes her pull him inside and hug him fiercely.

He’s slow to reciprocate but when he finally does, his grip is tight. She almost can’t breathe. His confession is a whispered, “I close my eyes and I see him.”

Him. Phillip Dowd. Elle strokes his back. She doesn’t say anything because, really, what is there to say? _I know the feeling. Sometimes, I see Uncle Ronaldo standing over me with his pants unzipped and asking me if I’d like to suck his lollipop._

Reid’s voice is quiet, hoarse. “Did you know about Iowa?”

She lets him go but he seems reluctant to release her. When he finally does, she waits until Reid meets her gaze. “What about Iowa?”

“Hotch.”

_Whoa._

It’s not the type of conversation one has by the front door. Elle tugs on his sleeve and leads him over to the couch. He sits and she settles next to him, hand on his forearm, trying to reassure him with her touch. She keeps her voice low, soft. “What about Iowa and Hotch?”

So Reid explains the sparse details of the case and then wonders aloud if Hotch took the opportunity to mete out justice with Marvin Doyle because, “A jury wouldn’t convict him.”

It’s a chilling story. Elle tucks her feet under her as she mulls it over. No wonder Hotch lost a little shine today. She looks at Reid’s profile, the downturn of his lips. The sadness in his eyes. “I haven’t been on the team that long,” she tells him, “but Hotch is too…well, _Hotch_ to do that.” She knows that it’s probably not what he wants to hear, or maybe it is. She can’t really explain why she believes that about Hotch either. Elle searches for words yet comes up blank, so she says, “As far as the jury? You don’t know that, Reid.”

“You said yourself how many rapists walked during your sex crimes days,” he fires back.

“Rapists and killers are two different animals,” Elle replies. “Yes, the jury would have been sympathetic. Yes, the sentencing would have been lighter, but Doyle wasn’t going to get off easily. His murders were brutal.” She squeezes his arm harder. “For Hotch to cross that line? It would have to be very, very personal.”

She watches as Reid chews his lip and then his shoulders slump. “I guess.”

Elle’s tempted to say, _I know,_ implying that the only way Aaron Hotchner will willingly go that far is if some scumbag threatened the man’s family. It may even take outright murder. Instead, she sets her head on his shoulder and they sit quietly.

She’s not sure how long they stay like that, but then Reid breaks the silence. “Is it…ah…okay, if I…ah…” He gestures a little and then his hand falls back to his lap. “May I stay?”

“Of course.”

“I swear I won’t tell anyone,” he promises. “That last time? When we were all out together? I didn’t mean…”

“ _I’m_ the one who jumped _your_ bones,” she interrupts. “And I never apologized for it. I’m sorry. You should bring me up on charges of sexual harassment.”

Reid glances over, eyebrow raised. “I didn’t mind.”

Elle pulls back and looks him. He’s now staring at the bookcase and there’s a definite blush on his cheeks. “Your drunk coworker gropes your ass and you don’t mind,” she says.

Reid’s lips tip up into a smile. “My drunk, sexy coworker gropes my _cock_ ,” he corrects and she gapes at his use of the word. He continues, “She tells me she wants to have sex with me, and tries to get me into her bed. A beautiful coworker whom guys like me will never have a shot with.” He pauses. “I didn’t mind.”

She narrows her eyes and then tests her theory: “Didn’t, don’t or wouldn’t?”

His smile grows wider. He turns to face her. “Are you drunk?”

“No.”

“Then I don’t mind.”

And really, that’s all it takes.

Elle crawls onto Reid’s lap and begins kissing him. Maybe it’s because she wants confirmation that he really is talented and that her imagination isn’t romanticizing the encounter. Maybe it’s because he rejected her the first time and she wants to show him the mistake he made. Maybe it’s because she knows there is a hell of a lot more to Reid than people expect and she wants to dive in to what makes the man tick. Maybe because sex is one of those things that make the bad stuff go away for awhile.

When he slides his hands around her body, one tangling in her hair and the other cupping her ass, Elle knows that Reid’s no stranger to sex. She rolls her hips and he moans into her mouth. Their movements aren’t frantic; they’re not desperately fucking away the demons like Elle has done so many times before. It’s exploratory. It’s respectful.

It feels good.

One hand ghosts up her side while the other moves down her throat and to the buttons of her blouse. She manages to get out a ‘yes’ because Reid can do amazing things with his tongue and she’s wet just thinking about what he could do with her clit. She grinds against him harder and he responds by bucking up and then squeezing her breast.

A flash of lights through the picture window reminds Elle that anyone on the street can see them going at it on her couch. Her neighbors are gossipy, so she gets to her feet and tugs him to his. “Bedroom.” It comes out as an order but she doesn’t care. She saunters toward it, knowing Reid will follow. She turns once she’s beside her bed. Her hands are at her sides. Reid stands in the doorway, erection straining against his khakis. It takes two tries for her to say, “Undress me.”

He does, and like they were on the couch, it’s slow and sensual, his lips following his fingers. By the time he has her bra off, her nipples are rock hard and her breath is in short bursts. When he pulls her sweats down, she’s yanking at his sweater vest and demanding he take it off. She wants to do the same slow tease for him, but her impatience wins. Reid kneels as he takes his sweater and shirt off. He’s not scrawny, but lean like a swimmer. He kisses the tops of her thighs and when he places his lips on the crotch of her panties, she cries out and threads her fingers into his hair.

She’s not quite sure how he does it, getting her on her back in her bed with the covers pulled down. Her panties are around one ankle and somehow, he’s now naked except for his socks. He’s tasting her and teasing her. She demands he go faster but he refuses. He gets her close to orgasm and then stops.

Elle nearly screams.

He shimmies up, his hard cock pressing against her side, and he asks, “I’d like to…”

She wraps her fingers around his dick and begins stoking, effectively cutting off his words. He bucks into her hand, his forehead pressed to her shoulder. He chants her name softly. Elle stares at his face, his expression so different from what she’s accustomed to seeing. “Do you want to fuck me?”

“Yes, yes,” he says.

Elle reaches for her nightstand drawer and it takes several tries for her to yank it open and fish out a condom. She hands it to him and spreads her legs.

“It’s better if you’re on your knees,” Reid whispers. “Please.”

Surely it’s the way he asks that has her rolling over and on to her haunches. He slips behind her and lifts her carefully. It takes a few tries for him to line up his cock; she’s not sure who is shaking more. When Reid finally gets the angle right, Elle sinks back and _damn_ , it’s been far too long since she’s had sex. He’s patient. He remains still as she adjusts to him and when she finally says, “Okay,” he kisses her shoulder and begins to thrust slowly in to her.

It’s then that one of his hands cups her left breast and his right hand glides along the top of her thigh and then over her clit. He swipes his fingertips over her a few times, eliciting a shiver. She’s not expecting him to say, “Show me what feels good.”

None of her previous lovers has ever asked and she wonders how many women Reid has done this for. It makes her arch her back, place her hand over his, and move his fingers so that they’re rubbing just right as he’s fucking her. After a few moments, he’s shaking her hand away and takes over.

Elle has never thought of Spencer Reid as a dominant for anything.

She now knows that, when in bed, he’s the one in charge. She decides she wouldn’t want it any other way.

He swiftly works her back to edge of an orgasm, but this time, instead of stopping, he pushes her over the edge. Elle doesn’t scream, but she wants to. It’s like her entire body is on fire when it hits. She trembles and gasps and shudders. She begs, “Harder, harder” because she wants him to come while she’s still tingling.

Reid shifts a little, then cups both her breasts with his hands. He presses his face next to hers, his breathing erratic as he chants her name. His pace quickens. She knows he’s close so she encourages him. She tells him how good he is. How amazing it is. How it’s the best ever. She does this because every other man she’s been with thrives on praise in bed. Reid surprises her by pressing his fingers briefly to her lips before moving so they’re rubbing her clit again. Another jolt zips through her system and he reduces her to babbling his name as he effortlessly works her to a second orgasm.

This time when it hits, she wails and then he drives even harder in to her. Finally his whole body goes still briefly, his grip tightens on her breast and it’s like she can feel every one of his muscles hurtling through the climax. He pumps his hips a few more times before he stops. Reid nuzzles her neck, murmuring ‘thank you’ so earnestly that it nearly brings tears to her eyes.

They stay like that, her on his lap, her back pressed to his front, as they catch their breaths. She feels his dick softening inside her and it’s a really strange feeling when it just _slides_ out. Wordlessly, they clean themselves up and then tangle together in the bed.

To say she’s completely blown away by his skill is an understatement. It’s yet another facet to him, another secret he’s shared with her. And to think, “I said I was going to make a man out of you,” she murmurs, embarrassed that she said such a thing to him. “You’ve made a woman out of me.”

She’s expecting a lecture on genetics and chromosomes, but instead Reid laughs a little and pulls her closer. “I read a lot.”

“You? Read porn?”

“Erotica,” he corrects primly. “And I am also well-versed in human anatomy.”

Elle chuckles at the distinction and goes on, “So I’m one big experiment.”

 

* * *

 

After the case with Lila, it takes six tries to write a letter to his mother. Spencer tells her almost everything, safe in the knowledge that she’s unlikely to share it with anyone. Bennington is the best facility he can afford; while Spencer has never been to New York City, he periodically goes to Atlantic City to play blackjack and poker. He’s never sure when he’s going to be killed in the line of duty and he wants to make sure that if he predeceases her, she’ll be taken care of.

He reads over his letter again, wondering if his mother will understand how Elle saved his ass by exposing the undeveloped roll of film and thereby destroying physical evidence of his misconduct in the pool. He hasn’t written much about Elle, just that she’s the only one who he could really talk to about his nightmares and how Elle listens.

He remembers when he tried to tell Gideon about those terrifying dreams, his mentor interrupted him with his own story. Elle doesn’t when he talks about himself and keenly listens to him when he describes how his nightmares have evolved from the baby in the circle to having to go down in the basement to find it. She’s gracious in a way Gideon never is. It’s odd. His mentor is supposed to listen, not cut him off.

Spencer shakes his head. He looks at his words, _Seminar…Los Angeles…Hollywood…studio lot…anemones…_ He still can’t believe he made out with Lila in her pool _while on duty_. He knows that he would have probably gone all the way if the circumstances were different. He wonders if Elle would be jealous but then shakes his head.

They’re friends. They have sex. It’s not often and there’s no real rhyme or reason to it. It just happens. Sometimes it’s after a terrifying case in the field. Sometimes it’s after they spent three days straight combing through cold case files, looking at photos of dead bodies and having no luck at finding something that will break the case open.

Garcia calls it “FWB”. The first time Reid heard the term, he thought of the NATO code and asked, “Why Foxtrot Whiskey Bravo?” Garcia almost fell out of her chair laughing. She then patiently explained what it meant. However, from then on, whenever Garcia wants to know about his sex life, she’s asks if he’s done the “foxtrot” with anyone lately. He always says no.

Elle thinks the whole thing is hilarious. She never teases him in public. Never asks him he if wants a shot of whiskey or if he wants to foxtrot with her. For that, Spencer is eternally grateful.

Again, it’s not something he puts into his letters to his mother. He doesn’t include much about Morgan either, except that Morgan is their in-resident door-kicker, which is Elle’s description. She’s the one who refers to Gideon as ‘Dad’ and Hotch as ‘Mom’. She’s the one who says that of all the teams she’s been on during her career, this is the first one that has ever felt like a family.

Late one night, she confesses that although it is a family, she feels like the outcast, the step-sibling who doesn’t quite fit in. He remembers reassuring her, “You so totally fit in.”

“You’re just trying to get into my pants.”

“Actually, I’ve already been in your...”

She slaps her hand across his mouth. “Doctor Reid, do Mom and Dad know you talk like that?”

Spencer doesn’t include that exchange. He doesn’t include that with Elle, he feels normal, not some freak with a genius IQ. Elle treats him like a person, not like a walking encyclopedia. He covets that feeling. He wonders what he offers her. The only conclusion he can come to is that he tries really hard not to judge her, that he allows her to be tough yet feminine, brash like a man but utterly a woman.

He signs the letter as he always does: _Love, Spencer_

He wonders if Elle is up for a foxtrot tonight.

 

* * *

 

Elle is not physically tired, but linguistically tired. It’s hard to explain to her non-bilingual colleagues, especially when Morgan says, “English, please” for the fourth time that evening because she’s lapsed into Spanish without realizing it. Reid gets it; the man can read Latin and Greek fluently. She’s seen some of his reports, the ones Hotch returns with circles of red ink and scrawled question marks. Reid’s embarrassed when he makes slips like that, but explains to Elle that Greek is sometimes faster to write and more precise when it comes to descriptions.

Reid’s Spanish is horrifying. His accent makes her cringe and while she tries to coach him a little, he waves her off and blurts out Latin. She hears Hotch coughing out a laugh somewhere on the jet, and it reminds her that as a former prosecutor, Hotch must have learned Latin somewhere along the line.

After the case was over, Elle ends up at Reid’s apartment. She’s restless, impatient. She doesn’t want to close her eyes for fear of what her dreams will be like. The victims turning their rapist “into a woman” is unsettling, especially when Maria Sanchez, the district attorney general, praises the women publicly. It’s only when Elle is naked and curled up against Reid that she says, “Sanchez basically green-lighted vigilantism.”

He’s half-hard as she speaks, yet unnaturally still which can be unnerving. It took Elle three or four times to realizes that Reid is simply lost in his thoughts, trying to figure out the best way to explain his point of view. Finally, he says, “Sanchez didn’t really have a choice. Her subordinate called in experts from another country to work the case. Then, the victims hunted down the UnSub and castrated him.” His lips turn downward. “It’s all political.”

“You’re supposed say, ‘Elle, you mean you’re not happy those women cut the UnSub’s dick off?’”

Reid doesn’t chuckle or snort. Instead, he lets out a sigh. “On one hand, you admire the women for coming forward and banding together to take him down. On the other, you think about the repercussions, how someone later—probably a man—is going to use the same type of excuse to hurt a woman.”

She pokes him. “Hey. No profiling.”

“You started,” he shoots back and jostles her a little. After a few moments, Reid asks, “Did you feel like you where at home? Speaking Spanish all the time?”

Elle stiffens and moves to roll away. Reid’s grip tightens; he’s far stronger than he looks. She glares at him, willing for him to let her but also pissed that she can’t get away.

“Physics,” he explains simply and then relaxes, allowing her to escape if she chooses.

Elle doesn’t move. She thinks about home and her mother. The last words her mother spoke before Elle left for good. She says them now, the tildes rolling off her tongue easily. “Ninguna hija mía será policía.”

There’s a long moment of silence; Reid breathes in deep intervals. Finally, he ventures, “Policía is police. Hija is daughter and mía is a possessive.” He pauses and shifts slightly. He’s done his part, and is waiting for her to translate. It’s like that between them, this give and take.

Sighing, she tells him, “No daughter of mine will be police.”

“Ah.” Reid nods and then, of all things, laughs—but it’s bitter. His voice takes on that confessional tone. “On her good days, my mother thinks I chose to work for the fascist government. On her bad days, she believes I’ve been brainwashed.”

It takes a few moments for Elle’s mind to catch up to what he’s saying. When it does, she’s stunned. It’s the piece of the puzzle missing from the Bryar case. Reid understands Bryar because he’s dealt with it firsthand. Elle can’t help the gasp as she sits up in bed. She looks down at Reid, but his face is turned away. “Hey.” She taps his chin. “Hey.”

“She’s a paranoid schizophrenic in a Vegas sanitarium,” he admits and there’s so much shame in his voice that Elle settles back down and pulls him tightly to her. It takes a few moments for him to relax into her embrace but when he does, he tucks his head down so that her chin rests on his temple. She’s surprised that he doesn’t scoot down further so that his head is between her breasts but then realizes how maternal that position will be.

“I won’t tell anyone,” Elle swears, because that’s what they do for one another. Share those most intimate secrets that others wouldn’t guard as carefully.

“I know,” he says, hands ghosting across her skin. Their breathing falls into sync. His next question is quiet, cautious. “Have you always had something like this?”

“Hmmm? What?”

“Foxtrot Whiskey Bravo.” He clears his throat. “With, you know…others.”

“Yes, back in Seattle,” she tells him, running her fingers through his hair. Elle stares at the ceiling, wondering if this can ever progress beyond simple ‘friends with benefits’. She wonders how emotionally vulnerable Reid is, if he’s thinking that this is more that what it is. “You’re okay with it, right?”

“I don’t think I could handle if it was more than this,” he blurts softly.

Elle kisses him and meets his gaze. It’s her turn to say, “Ditto.”

* * *

 


End file.
